


Release

by colonel_bastard



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Desperation, Loss of Control, M/M, Shame, Trust, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock drinks something he shouldn't and struggles with the consequences.  All Kirk wants to do is help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a challenge with [raja815](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815). The prompt was: "on this planet, it's considered a delicacy." She wrote the incredibly charming fic [Food and Cheer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1175995), while I wrote my usual mental breakdown. Buckle up.

The liquid in the ceremonial pitcher is a deep shade of purple. Its consistency is thicker than water but still thin enough to allow for easy pouring. When the Akrennian servant reaches his place at the table, Spock watches in dutiful silence as his goblet is filled almost to the brim. They have not been told what they are about to drink, only that it bears an enormous cultural significance and to refuse it could jeopardize the entire peace treaty. 

“Trust me,” Admiral Collins had said to Kirk. “You don’t _want_ to know. Just drink the damn thing and let’s get this over with.” 

It starts at the head of the table, with the Akrennian ambassador drinking the inaugural cup. Then Admiral Collins raises his glass and empties it. From there the action ripples out along either side of the vast banquet table, as Terrans and Akrennians alike follow their lead and drain their goblets down the dregs. Spock notes more than one flinch from the human company, though he has great confidence that his captain will not be among them. Sure enough, when his turn comes, Kirk lifts his glass and ingests every last drop with a smile on his face. Then it’s Spock’s turn to drink. Although he is loath to consume an unknown substance, he is a representative of Starfleet and he has a duty both to them and to his captain. He empties the goblet as swiftly and efficiently as he can manage. The liquid has an ugly metallic aftertaste that lingers on his tongue. 

When the ceremony is complete, the guests are encouraged to socialize with their hosts in the great hall. As the captain of one of the three Federation Starships in attendance, Kirk is expected to make a good impression. He wades right into the heart of the festivities, smiling and shaking hands, while Spock trails behind him at a respectful distance, his own hands clasped tightly behind his back. Whatever it was that he just consumed is not agreeing with him— a sense of discomfort is forming in his abdomen, the muscles starting to cramp unpleasantly. He pushes aside the urge to slouch and relieve the pressure, focusing instead on keeping his posture straight and precise. 

The trio of Starfleet admirals greet Kirk with a gale of laughter. 

“Hell of a poker face, Jim!” Admiral Rosewater says. “I thought I was gonna spit the stuff right back out again!”

“What was it they used to say on Old Earth?” Kirk chuckles. “Close your eyes and think of England?”

This is greeted by another gust of mirth. Kirk is very good at provoking this reaction from people. Dr. McCoy has described this phenomenon with the word “charm.” 

“So,” Kirk says, once their laughter is dying down again. “What the devil did I just drink, anyway?”

Admiral Collins has the honor of revealing the truth. 

“It was the blood of an Akrennian Swamp Ox!” 

Kirk’s smile vanishes, his eyes widening. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Afraid not, Jim,” Admiral Benchley smirks. “On this planet, it’s considered a delicacy.” 

That certainly solves the mystery of Spock’s reaction to the drink. He knew from the first sip that it tasted like something he shouldn’t be ingesting, but he forced himself to continue for the sake of the diplomatic mission. Now he draws a deep, steadying breath and notes with unease how it gives him a sense of being over-full, as though the increased capacity of his lungs is taxing a system already under pressure. He is determined to make no remark on the subject. 

He is both surprised and confused when Kirk abruptly makes his excuses to the admirals and leads the way towards a more secluded corner of the gathering. When Kirk turns to look at him, Spock examines his expression and identifies both concern and regret. 

“I’m sorry, Spock,” the captain blurts out. “I had no idea. I should never have let you drink it.”

“That would have been illogical, Captain,” Spock reminds him. “The Akrennians were quite insistent that all Federation delegates participate in the ceremony.” 

It’s true. In fact, even if he had known beforehand what was in the goblet, Spock would have consumed it anyway. His digestive system is not suited to animal flesh or its byproducts, but he would have taken the risk since the success of the mission depended on it. It’s only blood. There’s a chance that its only adverse effect could be this abdominal cramping. He is determined to make no complaint on the subject. 

Kirk frowns. “Are you going to be all right?” 

To anyone else, Spock would lie. To Kirk, he can at least reveal a small portion of the truth. 

“I am experiencing some minor discomfort. However, I do not believe it will interfere with the remainder of our mission.” 

“All right,” Kirk says, clearly not convinced. “But if you need to leave, you tell me. That’s an order.”

“Understood, Captain.” 

For a while it’s nothing Spock can’t manage. He suspects that this initial wave of hyperkinesis is his stomach’s immediate reaction to the introduction of the foreign substance. He hopes that it will subside to a steady ache, and in the meantime he stays resolutely stoic, waiting for the pangs to fade. Kirk keeps checking on him— not verbally, of course, but a glance over his shoulder every now and again to assess his condition. Every time Spock sees the captain’s head start to turn, he stands up as straight as he can. The act is growing increasingly difficult. 

After what illogically feels like hours, the sharp, painful spasms finally start to dwindle away. Spock is on the verge of feeling something almost like relief when he realizes that the discomfort has only shifted to a lower, deeper part of his abdomen. The sensation is so abrupt and strong that it takes him a moment to identify it as the urge to urinate. 

He was anticipating stomach cramps and nausea— he was completely unprepared for a reaction like this. It hits him all at once, sudden and intense, as though everything in his system has turned to liquid and been poured into his bladder. He wants to clench his fists against it but doesn’t dare draw attention to his distress, so he clenches his toes inside his boots instead. He focuses on keeping his breathing slow and even. Kirk has nearly completed his circuit of the great hall. It won’t be long before they’re back on the ship. He is determined to make no comment on the matter. 

Within minutes he knows that he has either underestimated the intensity of his affliction or else overestimated his ability to endure it. He’s never experienced anything like this, not only the abrupt onset but the sheer severity of the need to relieve himself. Vulcan is a dry, desert planet, its denizens evolving to retain and conserve water in their systems. Something in the Swamp Ox blood is acting as a potent natural diuretic, and the discomfort and embarrassment are like none he’s ever known. 

The ceremony was hosted in a sacred meeting place. To ask the Akrennians about such a matter as this would be unforgivably disrespectful. There’s no other solution; he has to get back to the Enterprise as soon as possible. 

He waits until Kirk is between conversations before soliciting his attention. 

“Captain,” he says, and his voice sounds more strained than he would prefer. “My level of discomfort has increased. I request permission to return to the ship.” 

Kirk’s face crumples with worry. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing that cannot be corrected once I am aboard.”

Kirk takes a look around the gathering and seems to come to a conclusion. 

“I think they’ve got things well in hand without me,” he says. “I’ll come with you. I’d rather be on the bridge, anyhow.” 

They leave the hall together and head for the rendezvous point. Spock had thought that standing around and suffering was bad enough, but now that he’s walking at a steady clip he can feel the pressure sinking lower and lower in his belly. He tries to keep his pace level and smooth, but soon enough Kirk notices the slight limp in his step. 

“Spock,” he says, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right?” 

Spock twitches at the contact. He’s only just barely maintaining control of his body. He can’t afford to have his concentration broken. 

“I...” He tries to answer but can’t. “I am...”

A treacherous surge of pressure in his bladder causes him to freeze in his tracks and hold his breath. Kirk rounds on him in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” he says again, this time with more force. “Do you need me to get Doctor—”

“That will not be necessary,” Spock rasps. “I am merely... experiencing a reaction... to our ceremonial libation.”

“McCoy could help with that,” Kirk insists, already reaching for his communicator. “I know you say his cures turn your stomach, but he could—”

“I do not require medical assistance,” Spock says sharply. 

He manages to make it a few more steps before doubling over again. Then Kirk’s hand is on his back, his eyes brimming with worry.

“Tell me,” he says. “What do you need?”

“I need to get back to the ship.”

“But _why?_ What’s wrong? Let me help.” 

Spock can’t meet Kirk’s gaze. The words stick in his throat, ugly and shameful, but he forces them out. 

“The blood... the blood is having... a diuretic effect... on my system.” 

Kirk doesn’t recognize the word at first. Then, as the meaning hits him, he does a double-take, looking Spock up and down. 

“You mean... you mean you’ve got to...?”

Spock nods, his jaw clenched. Kirk seems like he’s about to laugh, and Spock almost crumbles entirely before he realizes that it’s not out of spite, but relief. 

“Well, I’ve had my share of close calls, Mr. Spock,” Kirk says warmly. “Let’s take it nice and slow. The rendezvous point isn’t far.” 

And without a word of ridicule, he sets off at a slow, ginger pace, his steps small and measured. Spock creeps after him, hating every inch of himself, ashamed that the captain should see him in this state. He’s grateful, at least, that Dr. McCoy is not present. Then his humiliation would be complete. 

Finally—

“Two to beam up, Mr. Scott,” Kirk says into his communicator, and before the beam energizes Spock shoves himself upright, standing as stiff as a board. 

When they arrive on the transporter pad, it takes every inch of Spock’s willpower not to double over. He’s never felt so full in his entire life, like his skin is a size too small and swollen to the point of bursting. Kirk’s friendly exchange with the transporter technician sounds muffled and distant, but then Kirk is looking at him and even though can barely understand a word he says, Spock knows that he should follow him. 

They’re halfway to the turbolift when Spock knows he won’t make it. 

“Jim,” he gasps. 

Kirk turns, looks at him, and without a moment of hesitation grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him into the nearest conference room. The door slides shut behind them and Kirk slams his fist against the panel to lock it. Spock knows in one horrible instant what the captain expects him to do.

“It’s all right,” Kirk says. “No one will ever know.”

_No one but you,_ Spock thinks in agony. The urge has become incredibly painful, his belly and groin burning with the strain. He huddles against the wall, every muscle clenched, his teeth grinding and his eyes screwed shut. If he moves even a single inch he knows he won’t be able to hold it anymore. 

“Please,” Kirk says. “You’re hurting yourself.” 

He is, Spock knows he is, but he can’t, he _can’t._

Then Kirk steps in close and takes him by the shoulders.

“Spock,” he says gently. “It’s only me.” 

Spock raises his aching eyes to meet the Captain’s. _It’s only Jim._ With an almost imperceptible lean forward, he asks permission. And with an authoritative nod, Kirk grants it. 

Spock lets go. 

Once released, the urine comes flooding out of him in an unstoppable rush. It fills his briefs and uniform trousers in seconds, the material swelling up before soaking through and pouring down his legs. Mortified, Spock covers his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with anguish, wishing for a rupture to open in the hull and suck him into the void of space. 

Then Kirk is wrapping his arms around him, pulling him down so that Spock’s face, still hidden in his hands, is pressed against Kirk’s shoulder. Even as he continues to soak himself, Kirk winds one arm around Spock’s back and slides the other hand up into the hair at the nape of his neck. The embrace is both comforting and strangely protective, and to his own amazement Spock finds himself pressing into it, desperate to be consoled. 

_It’s only Jim._ And he realizes that Jim Kirk is the only living soul in the entire universe that he could trust enough to do something like this, to humiliate himself with no fear of scorn or contempt. _It’s only Jim,_ and Jim would never harm him, Jim would never judge him, Jim would never think any less of him because of something so trivial. Spock shudders with relief as the agony pours out of his body, all the while Kirk holds him and doesn’t say a word. 

Even after the stream thins out and finally stops, they don’t come apart just yet. Spock just rests his head on his Captain’s shoulder, synchronizing his breathing with Kirk’s, slow and steady. Kirk’s hand on his back moves in a soothing clockwise motion, wiping away the last vestiges of shame and guilt. _It’s only Jim._ And Jim doesn’t mind. 

When he seems to judge that they’ve waited long enough, Kirk disentangles himself and takes a step back. 

“I’ll get you some clean clothes,” he says. “Lock the door behind me. When I get back, I’ll knock shave-and-a-haircut.”

“Shave-and-a-haircut?” Spock wonders weakly. 

Kirk demonstrates by sharply rapping a distinctive rhythm against the wall. Spock nods to signal his understanding, and with one last reassuring smile, the captain is gone. Spock locks the door. 

He doesn’t mind waiting for Kirk to come back. He doesn’t even mind standing here in his saturated trousers and squelching boots. 

He’s never felt so... relieved.

 

 

 

__________end.


End file.
